


retrograde

by tellemnaegi



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress, Suicidal Ideation (brief mention)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 09:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14850092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellemnaegi/pseuds/tellemnaegi
Summary: Dear Mr. and Mrs. Saihara,We apologize for the unfortunate circumstances surrounding your son’s disappearance. At Team Danganronpa, we pride ourselves on our ability to correct any errors that may occur during the filming process. As such, we have initiated the termination process of your son’s “character” of Ultimate Detective, as it was created for our television series.--Shuichi starts forgetting.





	retrograde

_DANGANRONPA SEASON 53 SURVIVORS FINALLY RETURN HOME AFTER SHOW ENDS IN LOW RATINGS_

They won’t let him see Maki or Himiko.

“It’s for your own good,” his parents say, over dinner. He’s just returned to his house after nearly a month of therapy and endless paperwork at the Team Danganronpa studios - _is this his house? is this the place he lives? are these people his parents?_  - and cannot believe this is happening.

“Who told you that, the Team Danganronpa psychologists?” He asks. He knows those people. They’re all terrible, manipulative liars looking to save face after their twisted money-machine of a television show blew up in their faces. Serves them right, each and every one of them. He doesn’t understand why his parents would believe a word out of their mouths, but here they are, clearly doing so.

His mother looks at his father. Neither of them speak.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, ” they’re not, he knows, but he has to try, “I gave a speech on _international television_ about how evil that company is - and now you’re going to listen to them?”

“We’re proud of you, honey,” his mother says, as if that answers his question, “We really, really, are. And we’re happy you finally made friends! But, for now, we think it would be best if you stayed home with us for a little while. Maybe after things have calmed down, we’ll talk about -  ”

His father gently places a hand atop his mother’s, silencing her mid-sentence.

“Listen, Shuichi. You may not recognize us. You may not know us. But we’re still your parents, and you owe us respect. I’m going to be lenient with you now, because you’re not yourself - and before you say anything, we don’t blame you for that. But from now on, until you’ve come back to us, you do as we say. We’re your parents. That’s how that works.”

He’s not himself. _I’m the only me I know how to be_ , he thinks, choking a little on the thought. He leaves the table without a word, and doesn’t look back until he’s in his room with his door shut and promptly locked. His bed is made, but he can’t bring himself to sit on it. It’s too soft, and what he needs right now are edges, uncomfortable lines pressing into him. He sits on the floor, instead, back against the door, the edges of his hanging mirror digging into his shoulder blades. He’s fake - of course he’s fake. He’s not a real person. Everything about him was scripted. His parents’ child doesn’t exist anymore. Unfortunate for them, yes, but it’s the truth.

Even if he could be that kid, would he want to be?

He’s happier now, he thinks. His parents should be happy for him as well. Thanks to Kaito, and Maki, and Kaede, and everyone else in that terrible, terrible world, he’s now someone who values his future, who can meet people’s eyes when he speaks. He’s not the strange, undone creature he saw in the video Tsumugi played for them, with lust for the killing game shining through its eyes. He’s something - someone - better now. He may still be broken - he definitely is, actually - but he’s beginning to step into a future that wasn’t possible for the boy he was before.  That should be enough.

 --

A month’s quarantine. That’s what the survivors of season 53 of _Danganronpa_ earned for their troubles. Well, and the prize money, but they weren’t seeing any of that until they completed their mandatory four long weeks of psychological and physical evaluations.

It was a month spent consumed by grief. Shuichi cried almost constantly, with Himiko faring only slightly better. Maki was stoic, as expected, but he could tell that even she was lagging, edging closer and closer to a complete breakdown, taking care of him and Himiko weighing on her as the weeks dragged on.

The seconds directly after leaving the game were a blur, his memory fogged by the weight of the moment. His first real memory was the sharp pain of his kneecaps hitting linoleum tile - he’d fallen, legs just too weak to keep him standing. He remembers the feeling of Himiko’s hand pulling at his elbow to get him standing, of Maki’s arms looping under his own. 

He’d cried for what seemed like days before anyone had even tried to get him to stop, and even then the only one who managed any success was Maki. She’d walked in on him in the common area of the on-site hospital they were kept in, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes in an attempt to stop the tears. He hadn’t even noticed her enter until she sat down beside him.

“Stop that,” she’d said, voice firm. “You know he’d hate it.”

Shuichi had sniffled, pathetically, in response. “I know. But I can’t stop. It’s not even like I’m sad all the time - it’s just this dread, this nothingness, you know? I never used to be anything, and for a second there I thought I might be something, might be the kind of hero everyone thought I was, but it’s all fake, and now I’m nothing again. I’m not even a person. I’m just -” he’d pointed to his body, his pale and waxy skin, “ - this. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Maki had not reacted to his outburst at first. Instead, she’d waited, like she was seeing if he’d finished speaking. When she’d eventually spoken, she’d caught Shuichi off guard.

“Do you wanna die?” She’d said, with almost no force behind it.

He’d paused for a minute, and then laughed, for the first time since the game. “Yeah,” he’d said. “A little, now that you ask.”

She’d responded with a small smile that disappeared as soon as it arrived, replaced by a more serious demeanor. “Well, you don’t get that choice. None of us do. That’s the price we pay for survival. We have to keep doing it. Trust me, I know.”

\--

In his room, he digs his fingernails into his palms, and is surprised by how grounded he suddenly feels, released from the memory. Whatever else they took from him, whatever else has been stolen from his mind, whatever philosophical nightmare Team Danganronpa has created by releasing him from their grasp, he has this body, he has the sensations that come along with it, and he has his friends.

And, at least for a little while, that will have to be enough.

\--

Later that night, when his parents are asleep, he unlocks his door and tiptoes out into the hallway. He tells himself he’s not searching for anything in particular, but he’s Shuichi Saihara, the Ultimate Detective for a reason. There was something strange in his father’s phrasing - “until you’ve come back to us” - that he didn’t quite understand. It struck him at the time, but he was too overwhelmed by bitterness to really worry it through. But sitting alone in his room, thinking over the conversation in his head to the soundtrack of his parents doing the dishes, he had a thought. What reason would his father have for thinking Shuichi would return to his previous self? As far as Shuichi knows, the brainwashing done by Team Danganronpa is permanent. He’s a new person now. _A better person_.

He finds what he’s looking for in the kitchen, at the bottom of the junk drawer - an unmarked envelope. He pulls out the letter inside of it, and twitches a bit at the “Team Danganronpa” logo in the upper left corner.

 

 

> “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Saihara,
> 
> We apologize for the unfortunate circumstances surrounding your son’s disappearance. At Team Danganronpa, we pride ourselves on our ability to correct any errors that may occur during the filming process. As such, we have initiated the termination process of your son’s “character” of Ultimate Detective, as it was created for our television series. Slowly, the implanted memories of his time before _Danganronpa: V3_ as well as those “created” during the filming of our series will begin to degrade. He will begin to recover his correct memories - a process we call “reinstatement” - and should return to the person he was prior to being accepted as a _Danganronpa_ cast member.
> 
> So as to not shock his brain during this fragile time, we have set the termination period to its most gradual setting. Your son should return to his regular demeanor in anywhere from 4 to 6 months. During this time, we ask that you not allow him to contact any other surviving members from this season’s _Danganronpa_ , as it may negatively interfere with the reinstatement process.
> 
> We understand your son may have a negative reaction to this process, as reinstatement is a relatively new undertaking for our team, and we appreciate your understanding and patience. But do not worry - your son is still in there, and he will be returned to you very soon.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> _Team Danganronpa_ ”

 

He doesn’t know what he expected, but it definitely wasn’t that.

He slips the letter back into its envelope and places it right where it used to be in the drawer. He thinks about storming up to his parents’ room and demanding an explanation, forcing them to take him to where Maki and Himiko are, forcing them to see just how human their new son is, how much _better_ he is, but he knows there’s no point.

He’s going to fight, though. The impossible is possible - he’s proven that much already. He knows what he’s got to do.  

\--

The next morning he opens his closet in search of new clothes, having slept in the wrinkled hospital scrubs he’d worn back to his house, only to be caught completely off guard as a stuffed Monokuma falls from the top shelf and lands on his head. He flinches, and the edges of his world go black and white and pink for a second before he comes back to himself. His closet is absolutely stuffed with Danganronpa merchandise. _It makes sense, after all. I was a huge Danganronpa fan._ The stuffed bear terrifies him, its toothy smile a mockery of the terror he faced such a short time ago. He picks it up from the floor and sets it on his dresser, facing his bed.

He retrieves a plain t-shirt and pair of black pants from in between all of the various knick-knacks and collectibles, cosplay outfits and manga. His parents must have shoved everything in there before they arrived at the headquarters to take their son home. He would appreciate the courtesy, but he’s having a hard time seeing any good in them right now.

He spends the whole day writing. A brief search of his closet finds a black leather notebook with Monokuma on the cover, and after tearing out the pages coated in hand-written _Danganronpa_ fanfiction, he sits down and begins to write.  His parents won’t let him watch any part of his season of _Danganronpa_ , and they refuse to let him use a cell phone or a computer, so writing is just about the only option he has if he wants to be sure that he doesn’t lose himself. He pours every last part of his experience into the book and, when he feels he’s written all he can, tucks it under his mattress in the hopes that his parents won’t find it. He rereads it every night before sleep, holding on to the feelings that come with each event, letting them linger in his mind and in his chest before he turns the page. The pain he feels at each person’s death, the betrayal he feels when each killer is revealed. The happy bits too - training with Maki and Kaito, playing tennis with Ryoma, even getting flipped by Tenko. All of it is important, and he promises himself he won’t forget a thing. These people live in him now. He owes to it to them to keep them alive, in this, the smallest of ways.

\--

The doctors at the studio told him that the nightmares were normal, and that they would slow and eventually stop with “the right combination” of time and therapy. But after a month of that, and a week of freedom, they’re still happening. Each night, he walks through the hallways of the farce of a school they lived in, blood dripping from his hands. One night, it’s Miu, hands straining frantically at the harness she always wore with such pride. The next, it’s Keebo, looking happy as usual, but his eyes won’t stop flickering and electricity crackles around his collar. Then it’s Ryoma, hatless, jumping from the window of his lab. Gonta, screaming. Kokichi, burning. New deaths for everyone.

The worst ones are with Kaito. They’re always different - Kaito slumped on the floor of a classroom, clutching at his chest. Kaito in his lab, straddling the seat of the simulator backwards. Kaito in the cafeteria, in the courtyard, in the gym. Once, he dreams of Kaito, sitting on Shuichi’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. He looks the most peaceful he ever has, so much so that it’s anxiety-inducing. Shuichi steps forward to join him, but as soon as he touched his hand to the mattress, Kaito is gone. Disappeared into the air without leaving a single trace behind. He wakes from that one blurry with tears, angry at his mind, the mind made for _Danganronpa_ , the mind that knows nothing else. _A little on the nose, isn’t it?_

He can’t remember his dreams about Kaede. Somehow, that’s worse.  

\--

He loses his talent first.

It’s terrifying, feeling all of this knowledge he thought he had, all of the things he knows used to belong to him, slipping out of his brain. The letter said four to six months, but it’s only been three weeks and he’s already forgotten everything he knew about poisons and most of what he knew about atypical murder weapons.

This must be the easy stuff to erase, he thinks. His friends will be harder. 

He clutches that thought, repeats it like a mantra. _My friends won’t leave me. Not for at least a few months_. He pulls out the diary under his bed, the black leather starting to wear at the corners, and begins to read.

\--

After three months of being at home doing nothing but reading and avoiding their son, his parents declare that he is going to be homeschooled, in order to prepare him for the university qualification exam. It won’t be the same thing as going to high school, they explain, but he can’t do that, for obvious reasons, and passing these exams would be enough for him to be able to attend a university in the next few years. He’s loath to go along with anything his parents have decided is good for him, but as much as he hates it, he’s bored, and his mind is desperate for anything permanent to grasp onto, so he takes the books they buy him into his room and stacks them on his nightstand. They’ll make good supplemental reading.

That night, flipping through the pages of his journal, he finds himself caught in the first section, the one he’s informally titled “Kaede.” Maybe that’s an injustice to Rantaro, who, he reminds himself, deserved to live just as much as she did, but he can’t bring himself to think of that time belonging to anyone but her, and he’s given up feeling guilty about it.

Reading his own words about her is always difficult, but tonight it’s especially so, his stomach twisting and temples aching as he makes his way through each paragraph they shared together. He’s felt many things when thinking about Kaede in the past - regret being number one, but also pain, and disappointment, and fear, and yes, a fluttering in his chest that he now knows as love. Nausea was never one of them.

He rereads the thick stack of pages over and over, trying to tease out why he’s feeling so strange, why he isn’t as overcome by the sadness, and the brief moments of joy amidst it, as he usually is.  

  
The answer appears to him like lightning, and he attempts to reject it just as quickly, but to no avail. Now that the thought is there, it won’t leave. Even if it would, there’s no point. He knows he’s right, knows it like he used to know which of his friends had done the unspeakable. Someday his endless need for truth will bring him to his ruin. And that day might just be today, because he knows now that _Danganronpa_ has begun to take from him the one thing he was praying it wouldn’t.

He feels nothing, thinking about Kaede, about the way she played the piano, about the way she held his hand, about the way she hung, lifeless, from a rope that seemed to come from heaven itself. It’s not that he doesn’t remember all of those things - he does, in excruciating detail. He just can’t bring himself to _feel_ anything about any of it. His body, feeling guilty for feeling nothing, has been twisting itself into knots in order to fake some kind of emotion - anything to avoid being the shell of a person he knows awaits him in the future. They’re not just erasing his memories - they’re taking away each and every thing that has made him into the person he is today. Brick by brick, they’re deconstructing Shuichi Saihara, and he can do nothing to stop them.

_If I feel nothing, I am nothing._

He puts his journal down.

He picks up the algebra book from the top of his stack and starts reading.

\--

Spending time with his parents is agonizing - almost more so than the comfortable despair of the killing game. His mother goes through his homework with him every night, and he can barely bring himself to look her in the eyes. When he does, he notices that she looks about as terrible as he does. He almost feels bad, and then bites it back. She chose a suicidal child who knew her over a happy child who didn’t, and now, thanks to her and her husband, she’ll get neither.

\--

Shuichi wakes up on the morning of the day that marks his six month release from the hospital and feels nothing but stir-crazy. Half a year in almost complete isolation and something’s got to give, after all.

He still isn’t allowed to have a cell phone, or any sort of internet connection, and after so much time alone the game is starting to feel like a dream. Each morning he wakes up knowing that a little bit more of himself is gone, and each night he takes inventory of what he still remembers, what he can still feel, and what he can’t. He keeps expecting to become that other Shuichi, the one in the video, but that doesn’t happen either. More than anything, he feels like no one.

A small part of him wonders if this is better. He doesn’t wake up screaming anymore. He doesn’t spend his days in a waking coma. He passed all of his university entrance exams, and is in the process of applying to schools.  

He rejects that thought. The pain is easing, yes, and the bitterness, but those two things are what keeps him connected to himself. Their presence means he’s winning - even if he’s almost lost track of what the battle is for.

He’s still trapped, though. The only reason he knows anything about what’s happening in the outside world is through print newspapers, and he’s sick of this house.

So he leaves.

His parents, heartened by the bits of their son they claim to see resurfacing, have become lazy in their entrapment. So it’s relatively simple for him to escape - he climbs out of his window and onto the ledge below, before dropping into the grass. He twists his ankle a bit, but that’s the only issue.

He goes to the library down the street, first. Using one of their computers, he finds the address he needs. Fortunately, it’s only a few miles from his house, so he decides to walk. It’s so rare he gets to spend time outside by himself, he might as well appreciate it. He prints out the directions to the studio and sets off.

He recognizes the building almost immediately, even though by all means he shouldn’t. It looks nothing like it did six months ago. The lettering on the door had chipped until it is almost illegible, and there’s a big sign hanging from the fifth-floor windows that says “SPACE AVAILABLE FOR LEASING” in bright red letters. All of the lights are off. Standing right in front of it, staring upwards, he’s overtaken by how large the office building was. Team Danganronpa owned the whole thing, though he and Maki and Himiko were only allowed to stay on the fourth floor, which was the hospital ward. He imagines the rest of the building was made up of offices, conference rooms, the like - things that would make up a normal company’s building.

There’s only one way to interpret what’s in front of him - Team Danganronpa’s gone out of business. He’s not sure what he would have done had he found the place still open - walked in? Demanded they tell him who took Maki and Himiko, and where he could find them? Demanded they stop the reinstatement process? Screamed, and screamed, and screamed until his throat bled, until he was coughing up blood like he was someone else, someone capable of feeling anything other than bitterness?

It’s not a productive line of thought, anyway. There’s nothing he can do. The small part of him, growing larger every day, is relieved by that. He just has to keep surviving.

He returns home and walks in through the front door. His parents don’t even notice.

\--

He wakes up the next morning and can’t picture Keebo’s face. He’s not sure why he wants to, except that when he realizes he can’t, it bothers him. He tries to the put the thought to the side and move on with his day, but it’s itching at the back of his head the whole morning. After lunch, he goes to pull out his journal, hoping that may help, but when he reaches underneath his mattress, he finds nothing. He hops off of his bed and lifts up his mattress to see if maybe it slipped further underneath, but no. Maybe he put it in his dresser - no. Maybe his closet - no.

Left untouched for months and now the first time he wants it back, it’s missing.

He finds his mother in the living room, watching the morning news on television.

“Hey Mom, have you seen my black notebook?” he’s playing a dangerous game here - his parents really shouldn't know what’s in there.

“Which one? Oh, no, dear. Is it missing? I’m sorry - maybe it’s in your closet somewhere?”

Not for the first time, Shuichi realizes his mother is a terrible liar.

  
\--

They said four to six months, but it takes about a year.  His old memories, the ones that would have made him himself again, do not return. But that’s okay. He’s coping. He rarely thinks of _Danganronpa_ anymore, and when he does, it’s with a strange detachment, like it’s a life he lived before this one. Intellectually, he knows that he is Shuichi Saihara, survivor of season 53 of _Danganronpa_ . But he doesn’t feel like that person anymore. The executives have stayed true to their promise of no contact - he hasn’t received any press inquiries or requests to appear at conventions. He’s not sure if that’s because for all intents and purposes, _Danganronpa_ is no more, or if the team had warned magazines and newspapers not to contact him, but either way, he’s grateful. He wouldn’t want to talk about it anyway.

His parents loosen up - they let him leave the house without them now. He visits the library to study for his exams. They buy him a cell phone - one he can only really use to contact them, but still, it’s nice to feel connected to the world again. He supposes that he could use this newfound freedom to reach out to the other survivors, but he doesn’t see the point. What good would it do? He’s moving on. Growing up. Becoming a human outside of _Danganronpa_ , and he hopes lightly that his old friends are too. Even if he feels a bit hollow when he thinks too hard about it. That’s just the trauma. Being a shell of a person is better than being the mess he was when they first let him go, and it’s definitely better than the person he was before the game. He shakes his head when he thinks of how desperately he clung to his old emotions, the fear and the anger and the bone-rattling despair of it all. Why was he so insistent on staying in the past? He’s moving on. It’s healthy. He’s healthy now. This was the end goal all along, right? 

\--

Years stumble ahead, and so does Shuichi Saihara. He goes to college. He studies engineering, which pleases his parents to no end. It’s a stable path, they say. They’re so proud.

He grows, too. He’s taller now, and he’s finally grown into his face. He hates the way his hair falls into his eyes, so he cuts it short.

A few weeks before his university graduation, he’s walking the mall by himself after class, looking at nothing in particular. He wanders into a video store, thinking that he should find something for him and his roommate to watch this Friday. It’s his turn to pick the movie. He makes his way to the clearance bin, where everything is advertised as at least 75% percent off, hoping to find some cheesy comedy, maybe an action movie. Something light. He doesn’t know why, but the impending deadline of graduation has been getting to him lately, and he needs something thoughtless to shake him out of it.

There’s a girl standing next to the clearance bin in a light purple jacket. Her hair is pulled back into a short ponytail.  She stands with her head hung low, staring intently down at a box she’s clutching with both hands. As he approaches, he notices that they are almost imperceptibly shaking. 

 _Ignore her_ , he thinks. _It’s none of my business._

For some reason, he does the opposite.

“Hey,” he says, approaching her from the side. “What are you holding?”

“None of your business,” she says, in a sharp tone. She looks up. They make eye contact. Her eyes widen for a second. She looks back down at the cover, and then up at him, before inhaling as if she’s about to speak. She pauses, mouth hanging open in a gasp, before she exhales. “Nevermind.” She tosses the box back onto the pile and walks away.

His curiosity gets the better of him and he retrieves it.  

 _Danganronpa V3_ , it reads, in hot pink letters. _The Final Season! Now on Blu-Ray._

He sees his face. He sees the face of the girl beside him. Both of them, staring confidently into the camera, like they have something to prove.  Beside them, a younger looking girl in a witch’s hat looks down at her hands. He bites his lip as the feeling of recognition blooms heavy in his ribcage.

There is a boy dressed in purple standing behind them both, his hands placed confidently on his hips, a knowing smirk on his face. In the corner, a bright green sticker covers the face of a girl in a pink sweater-vest, and he has to fight the oddest impulse to peel it off. Other than that, though, all of the figures are completely visible, posed in a variety of uncomfortable looking positions, all making different faces to indicate their characters. He scans each of their faces, waiting for the thickness in his chest to dissipate, like it normally does when he’s confronted with evidence of his past. It doesn’t. It just stays there, a weight neither comfortable or uncomfortable, until he can tear his eyes away.

He looks behind him and spots the girl - Maki, of course, it’s Maki - walking quickly out of the store and into the mall’s open space, and the same feeling that compelled him to ask her what had disturbed her has him chasing her down in an instant.

“Maki,” he says, slightly out of breath from running, “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says, voice flat. “Shuichi, right?”

“Yeah,” he smiles.  He’s at least glad she recognized him too.

He realizes then that he doesn’t have anything to actually say to her. Which is weird. He thinks back to how he would spend his days at home during that strange and terrible year, imagining just what he would say to her, if he could. And now she’s here, and he has nothing, and it’s incredibly awkward. They’re both silent.

“Did you grab me for a reason?” she says, after a few seconds.

“Not really,” he says, “Just recognized you from the box set. Felt like I should say hi, or something. How are you? How have you been?” His own voice embarrasses him.

“Pretty good, how about you?”

“Pretty good, I guess. I’m in school. About to graduate, actually. Engineering. It’s not the most interesting, but I like it, and it’ll pay well in the future, so... ” He trails off.

“Cool,” she cuts him off, and he can tell that what little interest made it into her voice is feigned. He’s not sure how to respond to that, so he doesn’t, and they remain in that same spot, looking at each other and then the ground, Maki’s hands in her pockets, for a painful amount of time.

“Well, I’ve got to go - I’m actually meeting someone at the food court. See you around, Shuichi.”

“Yeah, same here,” he says, watching as she turns on her heel and walks away, “...bye.” 

On his way out of the mall, he passes the food court, and deliberately does not scan the tables for a glimpse of a girl in a purple coat.

\--

When he gets home, he tells the story of meeting Maki to his roommate. He gets a shrug in response.

“Was she hot?”

“Not particularly? She was mostly kind of scary looking.” 

“Sounds about right from what I remember,” his roommate says. “Some people are into that though. So, it was super awkward?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Like when you run into someone you used to be friends with in high school and your mom goes ‘Oh isn’t that your old friend what’s-her-face?’ and you weren’t that close in the first place and you’re definitely not that close now, but she’s already said that super loudly so now you have to go and make small talk because you’ve made eye contact for like 30 seconds and it would be even more awkward to just leave?”

“I don’t remember high school,” Shuichi responds, “but sure.”

“Fuck, oh yeah, duh. Well, it sounds like it was like that. In which case, I recommend forgetting about it and moving on. The world is small and life is short. Don’t waste your time worrying over something that was bound to happen anyway.”

Shuichi sighs. “Yeah. Makes sense. Just...felt weird, I guess. I don’t know. Sorry.”

“It’s chill, man. Don’t take everything so seriously. Anyone ever told you you should smile more?”

He blinks, and behind his eyelids is the face of a young girl with long, blond hair.

“Yeah,” Shuichi answers, without thinking.

It isn’t until after dinner, when his roommate asks him what he got for them to watch, that he realizes he left the video store empty-handed.

\--

The next morning Shuichi heads back to the mall. He wanders, just like he’d been doing the day before, searching for something, though he isn’t sure what - something to make that feeling come back? something to ease his mind? something to occupy his time until he can think about anything other than the faces on the cover of that box set, staring up at him like he, personally, betrayed them? - until he finds it. In the window of a small shop near the food court. He doesn’t check the price before cashing out, and it isn’t cheap, so he charges it to the emergency card his parents gave him. They won’t mind. It’s not like they don’t have the money. Besides, weren’t they always getting on him to find a hobby?

He lugs it home with the awkwardly long box balanced on his shoulder. It’s heavier than he thought it would be, and his back aches almost enough to put a damper on the way his blood is buzzing. Almost. He pushes it through his front door, grateful that his roommate always spends Saturday with his girlfriend, so he can be home alone while he sets it up. He doesn’t want to deal with the questions, and he wouldn’t be able to answer them, anyway. For the first time in just about forever, he’s _excited_.

He places the box on his bed and, with the scissors he keeps on his desk, carefully cuts open the tape and pulls out his purchase. He plugs it in to the power strip next to his bed, flips it on, and sits down on his mattress, cross-legged in front of his brand new investment.

He reaches into his bag, and pulls out the other thing he’d purchased at the shop today. A book.

 _Simple Piano Music For Beginners_ , the cover says, in curly white script.

He opens it flat on the comforter next to him, creasing the pages so it remains open.

He presses a key, experimentally. The book says this one is called “middle C” and that it’s the most important note to know. “Middle C is the first thing any pianist is able to find,” he reads. “Knowing where your middle C is will help you figure out any piece, on just about any piano. If you are ever lost, or can’t figure out where to place your hands, put your thumb on middle C. After some practice, your fingers will be able to find their place.”

A tinny, electronic imitation of a piano echoes through his room, and Shuichi swallows against the lump in his throat, eyes stinging.  


**Author's Note:**

> 1\. this is the first fic i've posted on ao3 ever, and the first piece of fiction i've written in almost 10 years. my apologies for any formatting errors - i'm still getting used to ao3. i'm proud of myself for finishing this! thanks for reading and please let me know what you think <3  
> 2\. thanks to my housemates for putting up with me while i wrote this - it took three months, and y'all stuck with me the whole time. special thanks to mack for proofreading.  
> 3\. "somebody that i used to know" plays in the background for like. approx 35% of this fic. don't worry, i hate me too.  
> 4\. title is taken from the james blake song of the same name.


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